


Dance with the Flow

by Innwich



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Dancing, Fraternization, Gen, Humor, cross-faction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innwich/pseuds/Innwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy wanted nothing more than to see the bomb blow up the RED base, but his teammates weren’t pushing the cart because they were, of all things, <i>dancing</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance with the Flow

Spy stared at the scene unfolding on the desert before him.

The war had finally broken their minds.

Spy had seen sandstorms and freak floods in Badwater Basin, but he’d never seen this. No sentries were set up behind the curves of the tracks and no teleporters were hidden in the bushes. Instead of setting up a defense, the REDs were dancing on the rusty tracks in full sight of the BLU base.

What was worse, his teammates were dancing with the enemy team.

The enemy Heavy was dancing at the forefront of the group, putting his hands on his hips and shuffling his legs. He was barely moving more than he did when he was carrying his minigun on the battlefield. This was probably what an elephant looked like if it attempted to dance.

“Where is that terrible music coming from?” Spy said. A disgustingly upbeat jingle was blaring in rhythm with the dance, despite the fact that no record player could be seen on the stretch of desert.

“Who cares?” Scout yelled and clapped his hands. “Yeah! This is what I’m talking about!”

The music couldn’t be coming from the speakers mounted on the outer walls of the base. Spy refused to believe the Voice would encourage this sort of fraternization. Not that his teammates cared. Even Soldier, who always drew first blood if he hadn’t managed to blow himself up because of rocket-jumping, was whipping every teammate in sight with his riding crop and yelling, “Dance harder, maggots! Put more hip into that thrust!”

Spy dived behind a boulder as a dozen of doves flew for his head. The frenzy of feathers shot past him. Spy glared at the culprit from behind the rock. Medic was hooting with laughter as he danced behind the enemy Pyro. Medic didn’t seem to care where his pet birds had gone off to as soon as he’d released them. Spy bitterly wished those flying rats would become bite-size meals for some starving vultures in the desert; he hadn’t forgiven them for trying to pull his balaclava off of his head.

The dancing group had grown larger, as mercenaries from both teams joined in the dancing. Scout had somehow managed to climb onto and stand on the enemy Heavy’s shoulders. Scout was swinging his bat at thin air and cheering himself. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen from his perch yet.

“Imbeciles,” Spy muttered. He would ignore the boy if he came crying to him about a broken arm. At the moment though, the enemy Heavy was too busy leading the dance to swat Scout off of his shoulders.

On the far side of the ridge and right above the mouth of the tunnel, Engineer had unfolded a lawn chair from a toolbox and was enjoying a cool beer while lying on the chair. Spy watched him with thinly veiled envy, which vanished abruptly when Spy spotted the enemy Demoman sneaking towards Engineer with a Scottish Resistance and a wicked grin.

The resulting holler from Engineer echoed across the battlefield but did little to disrupt the festivities.

The mercenaries from both teams were still dancing. The conga line was moving along the tracks and into the tunnel. The payload was sitting dejectedly outside the base. This was worse than the match where they’d had to fight in the middle of a flood. This was worse because Spy was being cooked alive in his suit under the sun and no one was pushing the cart.

This must be a trick. A trick played by his teammates in collaboration with the REDs to pay him back for the verbal beating he’d given the team last week for failing to distract the REDs so he could sap the enemy sentry. They wanted to make him doubt his sanity and make him reveal himself so that they could watch and laugh as he got gunned down in the stupidest way possible.

Fine, Spy would play their little games if it meant everyone went back to doing the objective and killing each other.

Spy ripped off his paper mask in front of the REDs. “Here. Get this over with.”

The enemy Pyro clapped at the sight of him.

“What are you standing there for?” The enemy Sniper laughed. “Dance, you spook!”

Spy had half a mind to stab the enemy Sniper as the man danced past him; old habits died hard. The enemy Sniper waved his lanky arms above his head and nearly hit Spy in the face. Spy’s fingers twitched towards the knife hidden in his sleeve.

“Can it be that you can’t dance?” a voice said. Spy whirled around to find the enemy Spy smirking at him.

Miffed by the REDs’ lack of reaction to his appearance and the possibility that this mass hysteria wasn’t about him, Spy scoffed, “That isn’t dancing.”

“I agree,” the enemy Spy said, flicking cigarette ash to the ground.

“How so?” Spy said suspiciously. He’d never found himself to be in common agreement with the enemy Spy. Most of their encounters ended in bullets being embedded in one or both of their faces.

“They have no sense of rhythm. What they’re doing is not dancing. It’s…” The enemy Spy wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Flailing.”

Spy smirked. He couldn’t put it any better himself, but he would rather die than admit it.

“Then what do you say we kill everyone here?” Spy said, eyeing the back of the enemy Heavy. He’d been killed by his stray bullets for far too many times. He could get sweet revenge on the man. He’d be doing everyone a service by removing the enemy Heavy from the unlikely dance floor.

“I have a better idea,” the enemy Spy said.

“What?” Spy said.

“We’ll show them what real dancing is.”

Spy raised an eyebrow. It’d been a while since he’d had a decent dancing partner and he wasn’t one to pass up a chance to show his teammates up. “A tempting offer. What dance do you have in mind?”

“Square-dancing,” the enemy Spy said. “Unless you’re not up for it?”

Spy ignored the jab. “And how do we find three other couples to form a square when we’re surrounded by imbeciles?”

“We’ll dance enough for four couples,” the enemy Spy said.

Square-dancing didn’t work like that. But then Spy saw the curl of challenge in the enemy Spy’s smile. Spy drew himself up. He’d won many competitions across the five continents, and once danced for six hours straight despite having a broken toe. This was child’s play.

A new piece of music started to play from somewhere next to Spy.

“Shall we?” the enemy Spy said, holding out his hand.

Spy grasped his hand. It was strange holding hands with someone that was wearing the same gloves as his. A man’s hand told much about him, from calluses on the palm to a few missing fingers from unfortunate run-ins with rival gangs, as long as one knew what to look for. But that was probably why he and the enemy Spy both wore gloves; they knew what to seek and what to hide.

Spy twirled the enemy Spy. “I’ll kill you once this farce is done.”

“And I you,” the enemy Spy said, righting himself with the grace of a cat. He linked arms with Spy as the beat of the music picked up. “I expect nothing less.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you’re wondering, yes, Demoman gave Engineer a lap dance. No one is safe from friendlies.


End file.
